‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. But one must disguise oneself. Await me in the coach. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away.
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